Date: Wed, 18 Apr 2012 19:33:25 -0600
From: michaelpete@hushmail.com
Subject: New book

To my readers: Sorry to be away for a while but life demands more than the
fun of writing. I would like you all to consider supporting Nifty with
donations as that is how they are able to continue their great work. Ten
bucks is fine though more is a lot better.

Be advised that in the following one will find graphic sexual depiction
between minors and minors and adults. The story is fiction but based mostly
though not entirely on real characters, events, places and situations.
There is no relationship between the names used and that of any real
person. Send comments to michaelpete@hushmail.com.

Michael Peterson


WHERE THERE'S A WILL

CHAPTER I

CRIMINAL BEHAVIOUR


	It was probably the desperation of the times that was greatly
responsible for what happened mid spring in 2006.

	I was wheeling my Saturday afternoon shopping out the main door of
the local Walmart when a assertive young voice asked with a deep southern
drawl, "He'p you with yo' stuff, suh?"

	"No thanks", was already coming out of my mouth before I saw those
big brown bedroom eyes with long lashes staring upward. The boy, about ten
or eleven with a slim but very agreeable face nicely framed with shoulder
length light brown hair, followed me and insisted, "You don't gotta pay me
nothin' if'n you don' wanna." Oh God, how I loved that accent! The change
in response came from some automated portion of my brain.

	"There you go," I said with a smile as I stepped to one side to let
him take over. As he grabbed hold of the cart, a brief touch of his hand
warmed me all over.

	A quick up and down caught the poverty: a button up shirt torn at
the shoulder and missing a top button, undersized threadbare flannel pants
which, along with the lack of socks, showed off a lot of slightly dirty
ankle. The tight pants clung to a pleasant pair of buns that bobbed gently
as he pushed the cart along.

 	A sudden shot of paranoia caused my eyes to shift side to side from
the forbidden zone to see if anyone was observing my lust. A mother with
two pre-teen daughters was coming our way, looking at the boy, not me. As
we neared, she crossed over behind her two girls to put herself between
them and my cart jockey. Her disapproving expression elevated a feeling of
protectiveness in me and probably affected my responses over the next few
minutes.

	"Wheah's yo' cah, suh?" asked the sweet child. He had one of those
slightly tight lipped mouths that seemed to indicate a certain degree of
determination, or hard headedness.

	"Two, three more rows ahead, the green sports car."  The major
luxury in my life was the 1980 Triumph TR8 convertible I owned. Being
single and unwilling to risk my freedom taking out any boys, such an
extravagance was within my means and somewhat cathartic. I truly enjoyed
driving my little beauty over the speed limit on curvy country roads.  The
lad couldn't see it over the SUV's. "Just keep going straight," I
instructed.

	I wanted to ask him his name, age, all that, but worried it would
seem too forward. After all, I was one of those dangerous strangers. This
innocent child, I suspected, was just out to make a buck.

	By backing off a step or two, his cute fanny was easier to glom
without being too obvious about it. Sunglasses would have been nice. He was
nice. The midafternoon sun gave his unshorn locks a golden sheen. There
didn't seem to be any underwear between him and his nearly worn through
trousers.

	"Ah see it!" declared the boy. "Gimme yo' keys and ah'll open up
the trunk an' put yo' stuff in."

	I dropped them into his small, dirty but sturdy looking
outstretched hand.

	When he leaned over, the view became irresistible. I did check left
and right for witnesses but mostly I looked down.

	Bags were carefully placed inside and the trunk lid gently but
firmly shut with both hands. The boy walked around to the driver's side,
skillfully unlocked, and opened the door. I dug around into my pocket for a
dollar hoping I'd find two, willing to give this beautiful boy five if that
was the smallest available in hopes he'd seek me out the following week.

	He stood beside the open driver's door and held out my keys. As I
was looking over the few bills I'd dug out of my pocket, he asked
sheepishly, "Wheah ya'll live, suh? Ah kin go ta yo' house an' he'p ya git
yo' stuff inside if'n you wan'."

	`Ya'll!' He'd said `ya'll'! Lovely!

	Still, the offer was an entirely unexpected, scary but enticing,
beautifully phrased request. I looked down at him, wary but weak, swimming
in a sudden yearning to have a boy with me, even if for one brief but
memorable interval. I hadn't spoken more than a few words to one in nigh on
twenty years. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on one's point of
view, my sister had only generated girls, sweet and cuddly but without the
preferred pendants. The terror of repercussions was smothered by pleasant,
if modest, anticipation.

	"Uh, well, how are you planning to get back here?"

	"Don't ya'll got busses out wheah you live?"

	Ya'll! He'd done it again. The child's words dripped magnolia
blossoms.

Not having used a bus since my own boyhood, I wasn't sure about routes but
had seen some on a commercial boulevard a couple of blocks from my
house. "I suppose so." I was ready to send him back in a taxi if need be.

	He was already running around to the passenger side as I was
answering.

	Paranoia hit again as his door closed and the smell of unwashed boy
drifted my way. I would have to control myself, I thought. Absolutely no
touching! Just a handshake when he left.

	I finally asked his name.

	"Jackie, wha's yo's"

	"Harry. How old are you?"

	"'Leven," he answered as though it was a source of pride.

	He was a tad small for his age. I looked over at him. His hands
were folded on his lap. His finger thickness suggested working man's
genetics. What nails I could see had dirt under them. One of the knees of
his pants had a small tear. A bit of flesh showed through. I would have
loved to touch it.

	I asked, "What grade are you in?"

	He was silent for a few moments then said, "Ah don' zackly go ta
school."

	He twisted his tight little mouth as though in thought.

	"Something happen?" I asked.

	He countered with, "What grade you go to when you wuz in school?"
It wasn't going to be an easy topic of conversation.

	"College. I finished college."

	"Ah might go ta college one day. What kahnda work you do?"

	"I'm a kind of engineer. I design things, systems.

	"What's them, systems?"

	"It's a number of machines that have to work together to do a
certain thing, make certain things. Each one has to do its job at a certain
time then the next machine has to do something."

	"How much they pay ta do that?"

	"Enough to pay the rent and buy the food you put in the trunk," I
answered with a smile.

	I dropped the school issue. He didn't dig any further into my
income.

	Ten minutes later, we turned onto my street. In keeping with my
slightly better than middle class income, I lived in a nice neighborhood of
two story mostly brick homes surrounded with well kept lawns and asphalt
driveways into enclosed garages. When I pointed out my house ahead, he
asked if I had, "one a them `lectric doh's opens when ya pushes a button?"
When I said yes, he insisted on doing the pushing. I indicated that it was
on my left. Before I could protest, he leaned sideways across my thighs and
asked where. His left arm was pressed against my crotch causing a bloating
below, a pleasant feeling which competed with the smell poor kids give off
after two to three days without a bath.

	I put the wonderfully warm finger of his right hand on the button
under the dash. He pushed it in then lifted himself up, right where he was,
to watch, soft boy hair brushing against my chin, his shoulder comfortably
leaning into my solar plexus. His arm pressed harder on top of what was now
becoming embarrassingly near a hard on. I hoped his attention was
sufficiently affixed on the action of the door that he wouldn't notice the
action below.

	"Tha's neat. Ah seen one a them on this other guy's house."

	I think we both caught the possible meaning of that remark at the
same time. I considered it. He sat up quickly, and silently, up and stared
out the windshield as we drove inside the garage. His eyes were fixed
straight ahead, not moving with anything he might have been watching.

	The moment we stopped, he asked for the car and house
keys. Wondering more about what the boy's real intentions were – Was he
a hustler? – than why he might have wanted the keys, I handed them over.

	He brought me back to earth with, "Which one opens the doh'?" He
was holding up the house keys.

	"The one with the blue ring."

	He hopped up the two stairs, opened the door to the kitchen then
trotted back to the car and unlocked the trunk. I was too deep in thought
to help him. Why had he been with another guy? Probably just hustling money
for errands, I thought, knocking myself for thinking otherwise. Once again,
I went into my pocket for money, this time five bucks for sure.

	"Kin ah git sumthin' ta eat? Ah'll clean up aftuh. Ah ain' et all
day."

	He stood in the doorway waiting for my reply, shaking his lovely
hair out of those lovely, seductive eyes. I wondered where all this was
going. Had this whole affair just been an avenue to some eats? "Of course,"
I replied. "Let's see what I've got."

	Could this boy be a street child? I'd long ago assumed social
workers and cops had rounded up every single one.

	"You got eggs. Ah seen `em in that bag. Kin ah have sum eggs?"

	Oh the enchanting accent! "You like bacon? Or ham, toast, butter
and jelly on toast?"

	"Sho'! Ah kin make eggs any way you lahk. Wan' me ta make eggs fo'
ya'll too?"

	His enthusiasm was catching. "Sure. How do you like yours?"

	"You lahk fried? Ah'm good at fried."

	I led him into the downstairs bathroom to wash our hands. His
turned the soap brown. I couldn't resist leaning over him from behind and
helping him get down to bare flesh. He squeezed my hands twice during the
process, thoroughly warming my cockles.

We prepared and enjoyed fried eggs with bacon and buttered toast.  For some
reason, it occurred to me during our meal that he still had my car and
house keys. But, his hands were greasy from eating with them so I decided
to wait until after he'd washed up again. As he gulped down his food, I
noticed a few bad teeth and a couple of gaps where some should have
been. Maybe this kid did live on the street.

	"So where's your family, I mean what section of town do you live
in?"

	"West side, neah the park."

	That was diagonally across the city from where I lived. A bus, once
he caught one then the second I guessed he'd have to transfer to, would
take an hour or more to get him there, and that was if he was lucky with
the connections. It was nearly five. I began to consider taking him home
but quickly dropped that idea as a mistake. I'd already taken quite a
chance just having this preadolescent in my car and house. Then I worried
that if he took a bus home he'd probably be able to find his way back and
might bring another boy with him, maybe an older brother or even his mother
who'd want to know why I'd taken her innocent young son into my home. If
they were on welfare, a social worker might get involved and things could
get unpleasant. Then, on the other hand, he might bring back a friend to
rob me. Taking him near to his house seemed a better option.

	Ignoring those teeth, he was certainly a very good looking kid, I
thought, then mentally smacked myself with the potential twenty or thirty
years in prison facing me if this were to go bad. Paranoia was a good thing
in 2006, had been for decades.

	Then, staring up at me with those beautiful eyes, he asked, "Kin ah
take a baff heah `fo' I go? We ain' got no watuh."

	The paranoia was abruptly displaced by the thought of getting a
look at what promised to be a nice boy body and, maybe, my first hairless
penis in twenty years. Caution disappeared quicker than our fried eggs.

	"Uh, okay. Bathroom's upstairs. I'll show you."

	Shaking my head at my doing such an idiotic thing, I led Jackie up
to my bedroom and showed him the bathroom door. "Don't even think about
going in there," I screamed at myself silently.

	He didn't close the door, so I did.

	Moments later, he walked out, stark, beautifully, sumptuously,
naked, a long, uncut, prepubescent peter dangling temptingly below a
slightly rounded tummy and a softly muscular chest. "How you turn this
thang on?" he asked as though he didn't see me caressing him with my eyes.

	I tried my best not to touch him as I walked by but he put his arm
briefly around my waist then took my arm, holding onto it even as I reached
out to turn on the hot water.

	"Oh, shit!" he exclaimed not too loudly. "Ah left yer keys. Lemme
git `em wahl ya'll fix the watuh."

	Before I could say anything or stop him, he dashed out of the
bathroom. I got a glimpse of his gorgeous rump as he cleared the door.

The shower was lukewarm minutes later when he came back in, both sets of
keys dangling from the fingers of his right hand. After handing them over,
he stuck the same hand into the water and said approvingly, "Tha's real
good. Kin you wash mah back? Ah cain't reach back theah all that good."

I watched him get wet, watched the water course down the perfect grooves of
his tummy and over his little cigar shaped cock. "God, I'd like to puff on
that," I spoke to myself. When he turned to present his not terribly dirty
back, it took a moment to pry my eyes off his shiny wet bottom all the time
admonishing myself not to get anywhere near it. I scrubbed him down to but
not into the arch of his back then handed him the bar and, after a last
wistful look, turned and left, gently closing the door behind me.

I sat on the bed and breathed a sigh of relief that I'd been able to get
myself out of the presence of that delicious child, and that my dick had
somehow stayed soft.

After a few moments, I went back to the kitchen to wash our dishes and do
something to control the temptation to go back into the bathroom.

The kitchen was clean when I heard him bouncing down the stairs, obviously
barefoot. When he walked in, his feet weren't the only part of him bare. He
hadn't even brought a towel.

I tried to get out that he should go dress himself but he calmly walked
over and threw his arms around me. His one leg wrapped itself around
mine. He hugged tightly then pulled his right hand around to my front and
rubbed it up and down my crotch.

I was completely paralyzed, absolutely incapable of stopping him or moving
away. The erection was practically instantaneous.

When he found my zipper and pulled it down, all I could do was wrap my arms
around him. I managed a ridiculous, "We really shouldn't be doing this."

"Don't worry none," he said softly into my belly, "Ah ain' nevuh gone say
nothin' ta nobody."

He struggled my hard on out and took it right into his mouth. I was near
collapse. He was very good, taking about two thirds of my six inches in
behind his lips. Each time he let it out, he sucked gently on the head then
slid back down, staying there for a few moments, his tongue massaging the
bottom, before returning to the top. My balls were ready to fire. He must
have sensed it. He stopped and said, "Le's go up on yo' bed so ya'll kin do
mahn too."

He led me by the hand. I watched his bottom shift up and down as he climbed
the stairs. I'd need to take this boy home by some convoluted route so he'd
have no idea how to get back. Or maybe I needed to move. Had he seen my
license plate number?

Jackie climbed up onto the bed without releasing my hand and began
unbuttoning my shirt. When I started to help him, he attacked my
belt. Within seconds I was wearing only socks.

He pushed me onto my back and crawled on top of me, his crotch in my
face. He was back down on my cock before I could take in his already rock
solid boner. He lay his soft, warm body on me and began slowly pumping into
my mouth, occasionally rocking back and forth. He'd done this before.

Maybe my hunch back in the parking lot had been correct, Jackie was a
hustler. If that was the case, maybe he was smart enough that no one knew
what he was up to. Maybe this kid was cool enough to do what he did and not
get anyone busted in the process. He'd probably want to come back, maybe
regularly.

What the hell was I thinking? Enjoy the moment, I instructed
myself. Thoughts about a move across town could be taken up later. His
belly warmed the air in my lungs. I ran my hands up and down his back,
sliding them up and over his sturdy bottom and down the backs of his solid
thighs to those soft lumps of flesh behind his knees. He was so smooth.

Once again, I was getting close. Once again, he must have known and lifted
off. He laid his head beside my cock, licking at the base while his fingers
kneaded my balls.

Jackie's hips continued to rise and fall. I let his rigid cock slide under
my tongue, then over it, back under on the other side.

He said something too softly to be heard.

Hmmm?" I asked without opening my mouth.

"Wanna fuck me? It's okay. Ah like it. You just gotta go in slow. Wanna?"

I let him pull his peter out of my mouth. Of course I wanted to. I'd only
been inside a boy once in my life but he'd been thirteen and quite a bit
larger. "Mine's pretty big. It'll probably hurt you."

"Unh uh. Ah had one like yers lots a tahms. Ain' gonna hurt none. It'll
feel good. Just put it in slow is all. Ah got some stuff in mah pocket so's
it'll go in easy."

Professional!

He rolled off me and had barely disappeared into the bathroom before
re-appearing with his hand reaching into those ragged flannel pants. Out
came a small pouch the size and shape of a McDonald's ketsup packet.

He sat cross legged beside me and opened the thing with his teeth. A thick
oily clear goo oozed out onto his hand. He rubbed it all over my cock then
reached behind himself and applied some inside his crack.

In a move like an experienced rider mounting his horse, he rose, tossed one
leg over me and dropped his butt over my stud. With his greased hand, he
guided the head to his hole and sat back. His eyes squinted slightly, his
head raised toward the ceiling as he rocked back and forth, nudging me
inside of him. His erection bounced up and down with each downward
movement.

My cockhead slid inside, setting off a fire in my groin . Jackie rolled his
hips forward, back and forward again. With the finger tips of one hand on
my chest and his greasy hand on my thigh behind him, he poked the tip of
his tongue between his teeth and started to slide down my shaft. My
breathing, and maybe even my heart, stopped briefly as his ninety-eight
point six degree rectum swallowed me whole, like a hot, slick, tight
glove. My body stretched and stiffened involuntarily. Within seconds, he
was sitting in my pubic hairs. My cock was completely inside of him. He let
out a breath and leaned back forcing in another quarter inch or so.

"Don' move," he said with a determined look on his face. "Ah'm gonna turn
aroun'."

I lay still. Jackie wheeled himself in a half circle, my dick as his axle,
then lay back on me.

"Now, you git on top a me." He pulled on my arm. We rolled over until his
little body was under mine. "Now, fuck me. Jes' go slow."

I pulled out to the base of the glans then pushed slowly back in as
ordered. It was incredible. He was so warm and tight inside. I didn't
remember my other time as being this good.

"Yeah, lahk that. Keep doin' it lahk that."

I closed my eyes and envisioned my cock sliding in and out of that little
hole, tugging his flesh out then pushing it back, straightening his tubing
then entering his colon. I had to be going up there.

"Don't stop," he said

A light flashed inside my closed eyes. This was incredible. Then, another
flash.

"I got enough," said someone, a man.

I froze, my eyes opened. There was a man in the door of my bedroom. There
was a third flash of light.

"Get off 'im, faggot!" ordered the man, He was young, no more than
twenty-seven or eight, long hair tied in a ponytail, a young man's sneer on
his narrow face. The boy pushed me back and pulled loose like he was angry
about what was going on. He was.

I started up from the bed, the destruction of the camera my goal. However,
the intruder was prepared. He pulled a large automatic from the back of his
pants and pointed at my face.

"This is just gonna cost you money, honey. Ain't worth dyin' over." His
voice carried a local accent, not the boy's southern drawl. He wasn't the
kid's father, probably just his business partner. The cheap casual clothes
and smirk on the soft bellied thug suggested long term unemployed, a loser.

The boy interrupted. "You din't wait until ah sed!" He wasn't speaking to
me but the man in the doorway.

"Christ, so what. Go get dressed."

"Nyuh uh. You said you wuz gonna wait `til ah sed an' now it's jes' lahk
last tahm!" He was pissed, but not at me, and still hard.

Strangely enough, I was amused.

"Just shut the fuck up and get dressed," ordered the young hoodlum.

"Nyuh uh. He gotta git me off fust." He turned to me, "C'mon blow me."

The man nearly shouted, "Go an' get yerself dressed Mi.., Jackie. See what
he's got we can take along with us. I'm gonna explain..."

"Ah din't git off yet," angrily interrupted the boy. Ah gotta git off." He
sat back on the bed, probably getting lubricant, maybe even poop on my
clean sheets. Don't know why that entered my mind at the time but it did.

"Shit, boy, use your hand. Damn! Just do what the fuck I said!"

He was becoming very put out with the boy. I watched for the opportunity to
go for his gun. The temporary amusement had passed. I was angry too.

"Nyuh uh. He's gotta git me off `fore. You always comin' in too
quick. C'mon, mistuh. Blow me."

I was incredulous. "Fuck you, boy. And get the fuck out of my house, the
both of you."

"Mac, tell `im." He stood back up.

"Jesus Christ! Just put your fucking clothes on and go..."

"Ah ain' doin' shit `til ah gits off. Tell `im. You said."

The amusement returned. I suddenly felt myself on the verge of
laughter. The kid was more concerned about a quick orgasm than the
substantial amount of money his partner was about to extort from me. I sat
on the bed and looked at the boy, the genuinely pretty boy with the nice
body and fine cock, probably the last one I was ever going to see in the
flesh, the last one I'd probably ever get the chance to slip between my
lips.

"Lie down, boy," I said resigned to being a vehicle of pleasure. Hell, why
not, last chance and all that.

The kid jumped off the bed. "Nyuh uh! You gotta git down heah an' do me
lahk this."

I shook my head and pointed at the bed.

His partner nearly shouted, "Shit! Get on the fucking bed like he says."

I said, "And you go out and close the door."

"Fuck you, ace. I ain't goin' nowhere."

"You got your pictures and he knows I'm not going to hurt him even though I
should. It's the only way I'll do it: you on the bed," I said looking at
the boy, "And you out of sight," I said to the man.

That enfuriated him even more than the boy. "Hey asshole, I got the gun
an'..."

"C'mon, Mac," said the boy almost calmly. "Ah wanna git off. He ain' gonna
do nothin' jes' suck me. An' you said."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Mikey. We're s'posed to be getting' cash outta this
motherfucker, not blow jobs."

Mikey, as was apparently his real name, put his hands on his hips, cocked
his head to one side, and said again, "You said!" I noticed his dick was
still hard.

The man gritted his teeth, looked around as though to be sure there was no
way for me to escape, a ridiculous thought considering what he had in his
camera, then turned and stormed out. The door slamming rattled the pictures
on the wall.

The boy stared at me from the floor in front of the bed. I stared back.

"So, blow me," he insisted.

I shook my head and pointed at the bed.

He said, "Shit," and walked to the bed, hopped on sitting up and folded his
arms.

"C'mere and enjoy it. Nobody's looking."

"Ah ain' afraid a nobody lookin'. Blow me."

I didn't move. After a moment and a dirty look, he lay back and pushed
himself off from the bedboard until he was along side me. I tugged him a
bit further and lay down beside him in a near sixty-nine position. "I ain'
blowin' you."

"You don't have to. You already did and it was fine."

Before he could reply, I went down on him. His legs straightened and his
tummy hardened. I put my hands under his butt to raise him a little.

"Git yer hans off'n my ass," he ordered while weakly trying to push them
off with his.

I gripped his buns and began to suck one very stiff rod. His hands stayed
at my arms but didn't push very hard. I moved my head up and down and
slightly side to side. His hands let go and pressed into the bed so he
could pump upward.

After a few moments, I felt at least one hand gently touch the hair on the
back of my head then lift off. He pumped harder into my mouth. His cock was
rock hard and increasing slightly in girth. He seemed close to firing but
unable to go over the top. He grunted slightly. His thigh muscles went taut
and his toes curled downward. I felt his tummy harden even further under my
chest. His hand went back to my head and rested there as he thrust upward
time and again, harder and harder. His cock was like polished stone.

His hand pressed down on the back of my head. His hips pushed upward. The
throbbing was strong, his breathing heavy.

He held my head down for a few seconds more then let go and tried to sit
up. I allowed him to, but slowly.

As he snatched up his clothes and I pulled on my boxers, I said softly,
"Too bad, we could have been friends."

"Well, we ain't. Anyhow he made me do it."

"I'll bet it didn't take much convincing."

He smirked and started to leave. I suggested, "Oughta clean off your rear
end before you get dressed.

He made an abrupt turn toward the bathroom, dropping his clothing by the
door and went inside. I followed. "This is a bad idea for you. You're gonna
get caught eventually, or worse."

There was no response as he watched himself wipe away the grease with
toilet paper. Nor did he look at me after tossing the soiled paper into the
toilet and walking past me out to the bedroom door. I sighed as he left,
his pretty ass a sad sight under the circumstances.

Mikey's partner seemed close to kicking him as the boy walked naked out the
door to dress and look for items they could steal.

"So, here's the way it's gonna be, Harry Frysdale." He knew my name. Big
deal! It was on the mail slot. "Yeah, I know yer name and where you work,
Martinson Systems out on Route 40 an' I got the phone number an' yer boss
is, uh, Warren Martinson. You see, I know all about you."

He did! Apparently, this hadn't been a chance connection. But how had he
figured me for a boy lover?

"So, you got `til Tuesday night to come up with twenty-five grand in small
bills, old ones, not new. Then, first a each month `til I say you can stop,
or you're dead, you gotta pay me one thousand dollars. You don't an' the
pics an' the kid goes to the cops and you go away for twenty years, maybe
more an' get fucked every night by some big ass nigger. You got it?"

What I got was that the guy was an amateur. If he knew where I worked and
probably that I was considerably higher ranked than a mail boy, he should
have known I was worth a hell of a lot more than twenty-five thousand
dollars. A thought struck me. I looked down at my pants on the floor and
stuck my hand in the back pocket where my wallet should have been. The kid
was fast. He'd managed to get hold of my wallet while stripping me and
probably tossed it out the bedroom door to be rummaged through by his
associate. Martinson's name was under his signature on my ID card but
nobody called him Warren. We used his middle name, Robert, and called him
Bob, especially top engineers like me.

They were quite a pair but, based on the amount requested and Hollywood
gangster lingo, amateurs or stupid, maybe both but still dangerous. I
decided to negotiate, try to prolong things, give myself enough time to
think over my situation and decide what to do. And, I had to get my wallet
back.

"There's no way I can get twenty-five thousand dollars together that
fast. Even if I sold my car and got all I could with my credit cards, the
best I could put together would be ten, maybe fifteen thousand."

"Shit, you got savings, man. I know you got savings. Don' try to bullshit a
bullshitter."

"I've got investments, not savings. In order to get money out, I've got to
have the broker sell them and that takes a week, maybe more. To sell my
car, I gotta put an ad in the paper or sell it cheap to some lot and even
then they have to check it out, do paperwork."

He cut me off. "Okay, okay. You got `til Thursday but that's it. I ain'
waitin' no more'n that."

My mind was working better than it should have under the circumstances. A
plan was forming based on my perception, hopefully accurate, of this guy as
a dolt. "Wait, that's not the only problem. Those pictures you have are
digital. You can make all the copies you want, they can end up on the
internet. We can both lose. I'll tell you what, there's a way we can each
protect the other and it's safe for you and for me." I was working on a
plan to get the camera's memory card away from him. The germ of an idea had
popped into my head then grew as I spoke.

"First place, you don't really need the photos. You've got the kid. Just
his word and I'm gone. I assume the twenty-five thousand buys those
pictures, right?"

"Uh, right an' don't worry, I ain' makin' no copies `cause, like you said,
I always got the kid."

"So, let's take the card out of your camera and mail it to me. Wait!" He
looked ready to reject my proposal out of hand. "Calm down. This works for
you too. If we put it in a mailbox today, it'll take at least two or three
days plus Sunday to get back to me so the earliest it gets here is Tuesday,
probably Wednesday, maybe even Thursday. You or the kid are here when I get
home from work each day, from Tuesday on, and I give you at least, say,
five thousand each day. I can do that with my credit cards at the bank. And
you can make sure I'm at work by calling my office any time you want so I
won't know when you're gonna call and I have to be there."

"Look, I tole you, I ain't makin' no copies and you gotta do what I say so
fuck that."

"No, you're wrong. I don't want to lose everything I have here but I can
take off, leave the country if I want. I don't want to do that but you make
it too hard on me and, hell, why not. You'd do it, wouldn't you?"

"Jesus Christ, man! So how you gonna mail somethin' when the Post Office is
closed. It's almost six an' they're closed!"

"I have stamps and envelopes. We can mail it down on the corner. There's a
mailbox there. " My stamps were years old and I had no idea what current
postage rates were. Hell, I'd just use them all.

I dressed and led him, mumbling something to himself, to my downstairs
office. In the office he said, "Gimme your passport and we can do it like
you say."

"My passport's in my office at work. Don't worry. I don't want to go
anywhere as long as I get the pictures back."

He sighed and shook his head.

I had to remind the idiot he had my wallet with my credit cards. He pulled
out the twenty-five or so dollars inside and tossed it to me. Then, they
took my electric razor, a portable radio, my high school graduation ring,
and a couple of fake silver candle sticks. He `knew', certainly a guess,
that I got home from work each day around five thirty. I wasn't to get home
any sooner until the letter with the memory card was collected in exchange
for the promised five thousand dollars daily in cash. The full twenty-five
thousand had to be paid by Thursday night.

Mac walked with me to the mailbox to be sure the letter went in.

The kid left without looking back. It seemed certain that he had better
clothing back home, but, the body odor and dirt had been real, the type
that took at least a few days to accumulate.

The control I felt I had during our negotiations fell apart moments after
they left. I sat in my easy chair and began trembling.

These two were novices, stupid and gullible. If they had someone else in on
this, as the man had intimated toward the end, he'd probably tell them to
go for a hell of a lot more than twenty-five thousand, probably four times
that much. And he'd immediately see through the mail scam. Running away
from the kind of charge they were threatening me with was really not much
of an option. Guys like me were ending up on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list
or, worse, nationwide television shows. Leaving the country would require
me to use my passport with my real name. I hadn't the slightest idea how to
arrange false papers.

Suicide crept into my mind. I did have an old 38 caliber revolver hidden
away in the ceiling storage space over the bedroom. If things got out of
hand, well...

My greasy cock, probably with boy residue popped into my mind, and the
boxers that currently covered it, and the bed sheet the boy had sat on. I
headed for the shower, bathed myself thoroughly, then pulled both sheets
off the bed and put them and my boxers into the washing machine.

I spent much of the rest of the evening cursing myself for being so naive
and reckless in allowing the boy into my car, moreso inside my home. It
just wasn't something a man could do any more. Finally, though, I followed
up on my plan to get control of the memory card. I called a fellow boy
lover I'd met many years earlier on the internet. He lived nearly twenty
miles away but offered to drive down immediately even though I said it was
unnecessary.

It was shortly after eleven thirty when Kevin Crowley waddled through my
door. He blamed his obesity on the frustration of not being able to be with
the boys he so desired. Twenty three years before, he'd been coaching a
twelve to fourteen year old football team. Back then he weighed a bit over
two hundred solid pounds from years of working out and playing the game he
was teaching. A particularly pretty thirteen year old had caught his
fancy. A close friendship developed. The relationship became sexual one
afternoon when the boy had popped a hard on in the shower at Kevin's house
and Kevin had ended up, for a reason he couldn't recall, giving the boy a
blow job which the kid then requested again and again. It all came to light
due to an indiscrete session in a tent on a camp out with other boys whom
both participants had thought were sound asleep.

Kevin had gone to prison for a little over a year. Fortunately, it was well
before the more recent draconian sentences and sex offender registration.

"What do they want?" were the first words out of his mouth as he sank his
three hundred twenty pounds into the sofa.

I told him.

"That all? Gotta be more. They're gonna up the ante as soon as you pay the
twenty-five thou."

"I don't know. They act like rank amateurs. The thousand a month probably
seems like a lot to them, well, the guy. I don't really understand what the
kid expects to get out of all this, hmmph, except maybe some more blow
jobs." I told him about the boy's insistence on completing his sex before
getting to the business at hand then his comment that he wasn't involved
voluntarily.

"You believe that?"

"Nah, kid likes sex, but there's no doubt he's poor. I'm sure he's getting
something out of this, bicycle, TV, who knows, and this wasn't his first
time. He said something about not being allowed to get off during a
previous extortion and made a comment in my car about being with some other
guy with an electric garage door like mine. Who knows how many men they've
gotten to."

"Christ, Harry, the kid sounds like a nympho or something. Too bad he's a
blackmailer too. Could make a real killing if he could keep his mouth shut,
not talking, I mean."

I frowned at his little joke.

"Sorry," he muttered rocking his great head back and forth. "This guy his
father or uncle or something?"

"Naw. The boy is from somewhere well south of here, probably Alabama or
Mississippi or thereabouts. Has one hell of a southern accent. The man's
from here. The kid's family might've moved here or, I suppose, he could be
a runaway. He admitted that he's not going to school."

I told Kevin about the pictures and how I convinced the man to let me mail
them to myself. "The guy's no rocket scientist. Can you come over here each
day until the letter comes and pick it up when it does? The mailman comes
around here before lunch. It oughta be here Tuesday, Wednesday at the
latest."

Kevin was the city hall photographer. He followed the mayor around when he
went out. His work schedule was full of holes he could exploit to make the
forty-five minute round trip to my house and back. It was a big favor but
we were close enough for me to ask it. I'd have found a way to do it for
him.

"Of course." He smiled. "You don't mind if I take a look, do you?"

I grinned back. "No problem but you're not going to see very much of the
kid. He was under me most of the time."

Kevin interjected, "Now I'm getting jealous. You really did fuck him?"

"Yes, and it was incredible, but expensive. Yeah, the kid was under me an'
I got a soft bed. I'm not sure which way he was facing so maybe his face
isn't in the photo but, you think that man would have told him to be
looking where the camera would be."

"But he got your face?"

"Oh, yeah. Last shot, he got three off, I was looking right at the camera."
I shook my head. "Incredible how angry the kid was that the guy hadn't
waited until he got his jollies before taking the pictures. You know, he
must really like getting fucked. He could have gotten off much easier with
a blow job. Or maybe getting fucked makes a better picture. Nah, anything
sexual would have been enough, these days, just both of us naked
together. Nah, he likes it. Christ, like you said, he could make a fortune
just doing that if he kept his cool. Imagine a safe kid these days, a
pretty one like him likes to get fucked. Hell, I'd pay a hundred a shot,
maybe more, and so would you. His method of hustling is pretty sharp. He
could probably have gotten away with it forever. Who'd notice?

"Another strange thing, he was genuinely dirty, not what I'd call filthy,
but dirty like he hadn't had a bath in several days and, maybe he is living
on the street. He showered before we went to bed. I washed his back. The
guy, he was clean. Doesn't make sense."

"If he's so smart, doesn't he realize being clean, well, hmmm, maybe
looking like a ragamuffin has its appeal. Sure worked on you."

I ignored the dig. "There's no doubt he's done this before. Christ, he had
some kind of lubricant and knew how to get me right inside him without any
pain at all. At least it seemed that way. He might even have liked it the
way he was acting. God knows how many guys they caught in this scam of
theirs. And, you know, only going for relatively small amounts, amounts
guys like me can fairly easily put together, and doesn't make us crazy,
that's important too. That's kind of smart. Yeah, that's sharp, and the
thousand a month is something any single guy in my economic bracket could
afford. Keeps us paying.

"The kid was smart too. Pulled me in like a pro." I laughed. "Wouldn't it
be something if the kid was running the show?"

I dismissed that thought quickly. "But he was dirty, like he hadn't had a
bath for nearly a week. Maybe his story about not having water where he
lived was true. I can't believe he lives on the street. I haven't seen or
heard of a real street kid in this town for a lot of years, decades. They
snatch `em up real quick I imagine. Anyhow, if his family's just a mother
and who knows, well, still, they've got places where they can go and
bathe. And the clothes he was wearing, no, they were probably just part of
the con. I'm not the first one they've hit so he's certainly got something
better than what he was wearing, or, who knows, maybe he's just doing this
for the sex. Wouldn't it be nice if the thousand a month included Jackie?"

Kevin chuckled, "Don't get your hopes up. Anyhow, you're rambling. This is
serious business."

We got back to the original question. "So what's his part in this? The
kid's no dummy. Like I said, he suckered me in like a pro. He knew exactly
what he was doing every step of the way, except, maybe admitting about the
electric garage door. But the dirt on him wasn't something that he could
have put on for show.

"Nah. It was in all the right places and he smelled bad, well, right for
what it was. Kev, this is weird."

"Forget weird, Harry, just think dangerous, very dangerous."

The discussion continued in the kitchen where I made us both BLT
sandwiches. As we ate, we batted back and forth ideas that would allow me
to get rid of the two crooks once and for all, but, since they had my real
name and the cops could get a lot more through my job, nothing seemed
workable.

Kevin mused, "You know, if that kid is a runaway, and I'm inclined to think
he is, and he did go to the cops, they'd send him back where he came from,
but, even if he wasn't, going to the police would put him in some pretty
deep water too, not as much as you for sure, but more'n he'd want. We get
that card and that might just do it."

"I don't know, Kev, the way things are these days, if they got jammed up,
they'd probably get off with some bullshit about me conning the kid into
coming and the big guy trying to protect him or some crap like
that. Anyway, I doubt the man gives two shits about the kid."

"Fucking world."

"Fucking U.S.A."

Kevin suggested tongue in cheek, "We could hire somebody to kill the guy,
God knows who but..."

"I wish I had that in me. If there are others in my shoes, and right now I
think there are, at least one, maybe one of them will. Maybe the kid
too. He's probably gonna grow up to be one very nasty piece of work."


Mac called me at the office Monday during lunch. They paged me since I was
in the cafeteria and he'd claimed it was urgent.

"What time the mailman get to your house?" he asked.

"I have no idea. Before five thirty since the mail, if there is any, is
always there when I get home."

"Ask your neighbors what time he comes. I'm gonna call again sometime
tomorrow an' I wanna know."

I agreed.

	He called again just before four. "Just checking," he said.

	Kevin called me that evening. There'd been no letter.

	Mac apparently believed me that there was no way the letter could
arrive by Monday because he didn't put in an appearance.

	When Mac called the next morning at eleven fifteen, I told him that
the neighbors weren't sure either except one who said it varied a lot,
sometimes in the morning, sometimes the afternoon, but always before four
thirty when he got home from work. It was all a lie but he seemed to accept
it. I worried he might try to keep an eye on the house, maybe spot Kevin
going in, possibly attract the attention of neighbors who'd call the
police. Considering what an idiot I thought the man to be, he'd probably
make up some lame excuse and get himself hauled in. Then, he'd likely
somehow blame me and things could get out of hand.

	I hoped he'd call again that day so I could explain to him that
people in my area were always on the lookout for strangers or parked
vehicles that didn't belong.

	He didn't call.

	During my lunch hour, I went to the bank and withdrew five thousand
dollars from my savings account. As I expected, the cashier would only give
me five hundred in twenties, the rest in hundreds and some of them crisply
new.

	The boy, looking cleaner and somewhat better dressed in new jeans,
a blue T shirt under a green and yellow striped sweater, and sporting a new
pair of Nike's, was waiting for me when I arrived at five thirty-five. I
hurried him inside. He smelled better though there was still a slight
unwashed scent.

	"Look, you can't be sitting around somebody's house around
here. The neighbors will call the cops."

	"Fuck that. Ah was only theah a couple minutes. You said you wuz
gonna be heah at fahv-thirty. You wuz the one wuz late." He showed off a
cheap digital watch. "Wheah's the mail?" The words held more bravado than
how they were spoken.

	"You're standing on it."

	He looked down. There were two envelopes and my weekly TIME
magazine. He felt them both. Neither letter was the one we were waiting
for. I handed him a manila envelope with the five thousand dollars.

	He looked inside then said pointing toward the living room, "Le's
go in theah."

	I knew what he wanted but asked anyway. "What for? The letter's not
here yet and you have the money I promised."

	"You know, an' ah ain' takin' off all my clothes neithah."

	"Then I'm not going to do it."

	"Shit, you like it an' all you needs is mah dick so, jes' suck me."

	"Let me explain something to you, Mikey."

	He obviously wasn't comfortable with me knowing his real name. "Mah
name's Jackie."

	"No it's not but, whatever. You think sex is just for the physical
feeling but for me, and most other men like me, it's also because we like
the boy. It's not easy to like someone who treats you like a whore. So just
go on home and we'll see if the letter comes tomorrow. And I'll have more
money."

	He didn't like that one bit. "Look, you gotta do what ah say o'
Mac's gonna put you in jail, got it?" It sounded like he'd picked the line
out of a movie but had no idea how to deliver it. Even his face displayed
more entreaty than threat.

	"And you don't get any money." His new jeans couldn't hide the lump
behind his fly.

	"Shit!" He began taking off his T shirt. "Don't go touchin' mah
ass." Less a demand than a request.

	The quick striptease in front of my sofa was enough to excite me a
little but I knew not to press for any more. It went pretty much as had the
final session Saturday evening. I grabbed his healthy buns, He tried
briefly to push me off. I stayed and he pumped. His dick had a touch of
dirty boy taste to it.

At the end, I slipped his cock under my tongue and sucked in his loose
little balls. Probably involuntarily, his legs opened for a couple of
seconds then slammed shut perhaps to hide the smell of poop remnant, or to
hide the fact that he liked it. He struggled loose, dressed and left,
without a word

I called Kevin. He had the letter.

	"Let me tell you something. These three photos really aren't much
good to them. They got your face okay but the other person's is turned away
and, wanna have dinner somewhere? My treat."

	We met in a Friday's. He had a digital camera that used the same
card type as Mac's. He was right. I could have let them keep the
photos. The first two shots got my profile. Only the last one had me full
on. Mikey, however, was buried under me, half visible only from thigh up,
sunk far enough into my soft mattress that one couldn't identify his
gender, just that he was small. His rump was pushed up enough that it
looked convincingly like a girl's. And, he was facing away from the
camera. Best still, his long hair lay on the sheets like a girl's. Anyone
seeing this photo would assume it was a small female, possibly a child, but
maybe not. The last photo with me looking directly at the camera was no
more revealing.

	"See what I mean? Doesn't prove a thing which doesn't help if the
kid says it was him but that's not the best part. Take a look at the other
pictures.

	I keyed back. There were pictures of Mac with a woman, I suppose
proving his heterosexuality and lack of interest in poking around inside
Mikey's ass, on a street of two story row houses, some with Formstone
covered fronts, some with country scenes painted on their screen doors,
probably, according to Kevin, somewhere in the southern part of the
city. Then they were in a park which probably could easily be
located. Finally, the two of them were inside a house with new but cheap
furniture. That confirmed it. Mac was a complete idiot.

	"Now," said Kevin, "don't go getting too excited. The kid's word in
front of a jury is enough to lock you up for most of the rest of your
life. And I can't think of any scenario in which you could convince him to
just drop this thing."

"Still," I added, "we now know the guy's an amateur. He should have known
those other pictures were on there. What a moron!"

Kevin pointed out, "It doesn't really matter, Harry. They can have you
locked up and not only get away with it but probably sue you for all you're
worth and get more that way than they are blackmailing you."

I shook my head. "Not if the kid's a runaway. Might make some lawyer a nice
payday but the kid probably wouldn't get a dime, just hustled off to some
home and bullshit therapy that would fuck up his twisted little mind more
than it is now."

"Actually," added Mac, "the man won't get anything either if he's not a
relative which seems the case, so they probably won't wanna go that
route. but, you still gotta pay."

Putting aside the probable injustice to the boy, the truth of what would
happen to me sunk in like a lead burger. I knew of at least one case in
which a priest was sentenced to seventeen years for something he not only
didn't do but should have been acquitted outright since, during the course
of the trial, every state's witness had indicated for one reason or another
that he couldn't have done what he was accused of. On top of that, this was
a man known to favor older teens and young twenties, not a boy of six or
seven, the age of his accuser at the time of the claimed incidents. Only
the actual complainant testified that he'd commited the crime. The Catholic
Church had to pay the lying so called victim a huge hunk of cash. Then
there was the other guy who admitted that when he was twelve to fourteen
years old, he went to another priest's house once a week or so, taking two
buses each way, to be victimized. Anyone accused of pedophile acts was
going to be convicted. We had no rights nor defenders. Kevin was correct. I
was going to have to pay these scumballs, at least until I could figure a
way to escape them.

We talked about means of arranging a new identity. Most of the methods came
out of fifties and sixties detective and spy novels and were no longer
possible for an honest working stiff like me. Even using Kevin's papers
wouldn't work due to the current passport requirement for a photo ID like a
driver's license which apparently needed a photo ID to get as well,
especially for anyone as obviously over sixteen as me.

"It would be nice to know what the kid has for a family, and if said family
exists," commented my friend.

"Well, we can locate Mac's house and I assume the kid lives somewhere
nearby even if it's on the street." The boy's genuine body filth still
puzzled me.

We drove south in Kevin's big Chrysler into one of the few remaining white
working class enclaves in the city. Using an old map Kevin carried in his
glove compartment, we easily located the park, a block sized affair with a
children's playground and a fenced in basketball court. Mac's street was
two blocks away. I sat low in the back of the car while we looked
around. We easily spotted the distinctively painted screen door and old
Formstone front of the house in front of which Mac and his presumed girl
friend had been photographed. Was that where he lived?

"We've got this much," said Kevin. "What kind of excuse could we give a
detective to really check this guy out, maybe follow him to the homes of
other victims assuming there are others?"

	"I'm sure there are but what if our private eye figured out what
was going on? Hell, he might turn me in himself. Any kind of professional
who even suspects any kind of kiddy sex is required to report it or be in
serious trouble himself. Hmmph! Or he might blackmail me too, for a lot
more than twenty-five thou."

	"We just have to hope one of the others kills `em both."

	That idea chilled me. Even with the boy's less than friendly
attitude toward me, I had this naïve notion that Mikey was a pawn of the
man. Worse, there was also an even more foolish dream that I could save
this poor deprived, unloved child, you know, the father and son crap so
many of us unrealistically harbor.

	I asked Kevin, "It wouldn't bother you if the boy was killed?"

	"Harry, that boy is gonna be one bad ass criminal when he grows up,
if he does. A lot of them like him don't get past eighteen. From what you
told me, he sounds psychopathic."

	Another near sleepless night followed, There didn't seem to be any
way out and, considering how foolish Mac seemed to be, I could well end up
in prison anyway. Or, the kid, quite well the psychopath Kevin suspected
him to be, would, when he got older, realize how much he could sue me for
and go that route, which, of course, also included me going to
prison. things looked very bleak.

	Mac called the next morning before ten. "I talked to them guys at
the post office and they say a letter outta some mail box in the city gotta
be at yer house in two three days. Better be there today and you better not
be tryin' any stupid shit."

	I called Kevin at his job. He was out and didn't answer his
cellphone.

	Mac called again at twelve-thirty awakening the curiosity of the
receptionist due to his obvious lower working class accent and poor
English. Callers to our company were generally business executives and
engineers. She mentioned it to my boss who asked who the repeat caller was.

"He's a guy I hired to do some work for me. It was a mistake but he's
already started. He should be out of my hair in a day or two."

Fortunately, he didn't ask any more as I had no idea what to claim he was
doing. My boss was not known for his compassion.

A female co-worker who was rumored to be warm toward me asked, "You okay,
Harry? You've seemed out of sorts this week."

"Not really. A lot of work. Problems with the house, you know, electrical
crap. And I need a vacation," I smiled.

"Wanna go out for a drink after work?"

	"Thanks but I've got a guy doing some work at the house and I need
to get home early."

	She accepted that and squeezed my arm. If it hadn't been for all
the sexual harassment bullshit, I'm sure she'd have preferred to confer a
kiss.

	I used my credit card to get another five thousand dollars. Once
again, I was only allowed a few hundred dollars in smaller bills.

	Luckily, I told the receptionist I was going to the bank at three
because Mac called again shortly before I got back. Then he called again
before four.

	"I was at the bank taking out some money to pay you for the work
you're doing. Look, I'll see you at about five thirty, we can talk then." I
hung up before he could say anything the receptionist might be monitoring.

	Mac was walking up the pavement just as I was turning into my
street. He'd timed it well. I drove into the garage and walked to the front
so he could see we were entering together.  There was no mail at all.

	"Two three times a week I don't get any. I pay most of my bills on
the internet and use Email for all my personal communications instead of
letters."

	"Lemme see."

	Careful not to open any other financial pages, I took him to the
power company's website and showed how I'd paid them the month before. He
seemed impressed then asked, "How come you pay almost two times as much as
me?"

	"Maybe I've got a bigger house than you. This one has central heat
and air conditioning. That costs a lot."

	"How much?"

	"Oh, about fifty, sixty dollars a month."

	"That's still more'n me."

I had no idea what kind of math he was doing. "Maybe they charge less per
kilowatt hour in your part of town. Maybe I've got a bigger refrigerator
than you."

"You got the money?"

I pulled the new manila envelope out of my pants pocket. He counted it,
came up with more than five thousand so counted again. That didn't work so
I laid it out on the table in thousand dollar piles.

"Look, your calling my office is starting to cause me problems with my boss
and I think the receptionist is listening in. I want you to get the damn
letter as much as you want to. It's probably gonna be here tomorrow so just
come same time as today."

"No, you look! I don't trust you for shit so I'm gonna keep callin'. Got
it? And that fucking letter better be here tomorrow," he growled, finger in
my face. He slammed the front door behind him.

It was a few minutes before I was calm enough to call Kevin. He was parked
at the end of the block, his home phone forwarded to his cell.

He said, "I'm in a small inconspicuous rent-a-car. I'm gonna try to follow
him. He's coming my way. (pause) I don't see any car parked on the
street. (pause) Ah! He's crossing over to the other side." For a few
moments, there was only the sound of far off traffic then, "Shit, he's
still walking, heading toward the boulevard. I'm facing the wrong way. I
gotta turn around."

I heard him crank up the motor and start and stop a couple of times then
drive for a few seconds, stop. "He's still walking."

"Okay, okay. Just watch. I'm coming out."

I hung up and rushed out of the house, trying to dial my cell phone as I
trotted up the sidewalk toward the corner. It took three attempts before I
did it correctly.

Kevin said, "I think he went into a Texaco station a couple blocks
down. It's hard to see from here. Hurry!"

He was in a blue Toyota Corolla. I jumped into the passenger seat. Kevin
drove down the boulevard. The Texaco station was on the far side at a light
controlled intersection. A motorcycle drove out going off to the left, away
from us. The light was red. We'd lost him but at least knew how he was
getting around.

Back at the house, I considered giving Mac his memory card. "This guy's not
wired all that tight. Who knows what he'll do if he doesn't get it."

"Well, it doesn't show very much and I've got a copy if we need one. You're
right. Go ahead, give it to him. Can you get the rest of the money by
tomorrow. I can help if you need it."

"Kev, it might be a good idea if you did. I've taken ten thousand dollars
out of my savings and credit cards in two days and need fifteen more. That
might be raising flags. Could you lend me ten thousand for a few weeks then
let me pay back five at a time? I can do five more without too much fuss."

"No problem. I'll do the same thing you did, five from the card and five
from savings. And take your time paying me back. There no rush except it
would be good to pay the card before thirty days so there's no interest."

"Another thing, " interjected Kevin, "you have anything illegal, anything
with boys on your computer? It's not that..."

"No, no, nothing. I've dropped all contacts with BL sites since before the
new computer so there's absolutely nothing except, of course, our Emails
and another friend in Canada. Fuck it. I'll get a new hard disk tomorrow.
God, I hope it doesn't get to that."

"Boy Scout motto, my friend. If there's nothing to make you look
interested, maybe your word against the kid's will be enough."

He stared at his plump fingers for a moment. "Why don't you let me take
that card with me and fuzz up the photos, make `em look out of focus, make
you unrecognizeable. Photoshop can work wonders. I'll get it back to your
house in the morning, or, we can go to my place now and do it tonight."

We went to his house. It only took an hour or so to make me into a blur and
the one picture over my bed into something else. Finally, he changed the
data that accompanied the photo putting the date the same day the earlier
photos had been taken, five days before they actually were

I did sleep much better that night though I woke up around five and stayed
that way.

Mac called the office at eleven something but the receptionist told him I
was out. The caller ID for his phone was blocked so I couldn't call him
back. Then at one fifteen, he called again with the same result. I was
furious but had to stay cool, even act as though she was doing me a favor.

Kevin came by at a quarter to five and was waiting in the parking lot with
ten thousand dollars in a cloth bag with a dollar sign on the outside, his
idea of a joke. I turned it inside out, stuffed in the five thousand I'd
gotten out of the bank and thanked him.

I hurried home getting there at five twenty. Inside, I stayed by the door
with two other letters which had come and the opened letter with the
managed memory card. Mac knocked minutes later.

"How come it's opened?" he demanded on seeing it. "Sorry, I just wanted to
be sure this was it but there you are and here is the rest of the money so
the card is mine anyway."

We went through the same counting and recounting of the cash.

"Just remember, you gotta pay me a thousand a month, first of the month,
every fucking month."

It occurred to me to ask, "Where's Mikey?"

"You don' gotta worry where Mikey is. He's around."

There existed a possibility in my mind the boy was gone, and, foolish me, I
wanted to see him again. You know, the dreams and all. "I've got to be sure
he's still with you if you want me to pay."

"No," he said with a nasty snarl, "You just wanna suck his dick."

"Mac, if I don't see Mikey, I'm not paying you any more. If you don't have
him, why should I?"

"Okay, asshole, he'll be at the Walmart where you go Saturday. And you pay
me on the first, satisfied?"

"What's he getting out of all this?"

"Fuck you! That ain't none a your fuckin' business!"

That was the end out of our conversation, punctuated by another door
slam. Mac had a short fuse. I went straight to the kitchen and put the
memory card on one of the stove's electric burners. It smoked then burst
into flame. Fuzzy me screwing Mikey was vapor.

Kevin called twenty minutes later. "I'm on your guy. He's headed for
downtown."

Downtown was where he lost him. Motorcycles can get through rush hour
traffic a lot easier than Toyota Corollas. He was back at my house by
seven. We went out to eat.

Friday, I bought a new hard disk for my computer and spent much of the
evening re-installing programs and copying files. Saturday morning, I
opened the old hard drive, took out the magnetic disk, smashed it almost to
powder with a hammer then dumped it in the trash.

That afternoon, I was at the Walmart anchored shopping center at
three. Mikey, dressed in the same clothes as Tuesday, was pushing an empty
shopping cart back toward the supermarket entrance. He raised an eyebrow
coolly at me as I walked in. I forgot broccoli in my rush to pay and get
back outside. I was stupidly hopeful that he'd come home with me. He wasn't
there when I passed through the air door. I looked in all directions but he
was nowhere to be found. I was relieved.

The drive home was sad, filled with self pity. I was a patsy as far as the
boy went, a victim to be milked, an orifice to be spelunked. I tried to
steel myself for a continuation of the boyless, loveless life I'd endured
for the previous twenty years.

The television had nothing of interest so I put on my DVD copy of the
original Blues Brothers film. That sort of worked but was over at six
forty. It promised to be a long weekend.

I was about to call Kevin when the phone rang. It was Kevin.

"Turn on your television, Channel forty-five. Just watch, I'm coming
over. And don't call me. I'll be there in, oh, as soon as I can."

The local channel was broadcasting a live news event. There were police
cars outside a suburban house much like mine. All the police were behind
their cars as though there was a threat from inside the house. The camera
was located some distance away probably behind a police line.

The reporter was saying, "negotiator has arrived and a SWAT team is on the
way. We'll keep you updated. Now back to our studio."

The studio anchor said, "So that's what we have so far. Mr. Paul Jones of
(and he gave the address) has refused to speak to police, apparently
leaving his phone off the hook and unanswered when they called. To recap, a
neighbor called police at four fifty-seven reporting that he'd heard
shouting like two men arguing then what sounded like gunshots from the home
of his neighbor, Mr. Paul Jones, a retired truck mechanic. When he knocked
on Mr. Jones door, he was told to go away. Police arrived at five twelve
and, we understand they were told to back off also or they'd be fired upon.

"A neighbor from across the street told Channel 45 News that she'd seen a
man enter shortly before she also heard what seemed to be gunfire and saw
Mr. Fitzpatrick, the neighbor, go to Mr. Jones door then return to his
house.

"A police spokesman will only tell us that a standoff is in progress and a
police negotiator is on the scene and a SWAT team is expected to arrive any
minute. We'll keep you posted."

From there, he went on to other local news.

My first thoughts were that Kevin's call meant that this might have some
connection to my situation but, never having heard of Paul Jones, I wasn't
sure how. I turned on a local all news radio station. They were talking
about baseball.

About fifteen minutes later, the television news was showing a live shot of
the police negotiator fruitlessly calling out to Mr. Jones through a
bullhorn. Then, moments later, even I heard the single shot. The announcer
excitedly reported it. The police negotiator could be heard calling out,
"Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, what's going on? Talk to us, please."

It took another few minutes before a SWAT team behind their great shields
ran up to the house, broke in the front door and entered. Then, as we
watched and waited, the reporter going over all that had happened to fill
audio space, there was silence from inside the house until one of the SWAT
team came to the door without his shield and waved in other police.

There was no further information for another quarter hour when the TV took
us live to a police spokesman who reported, "We have two deceased white
males inside the house, both from bullet wounds. One is Mr. Paul Jones, the
resident who apparently lived alone and an unidentified young white male
about twenty-five to thirty years old. Two hand guns have been recovered."

Before he could go on, a reporter called out, "Are you saying that
Mr. Jones commited suicide?"

The answer was, "It appears that way but we'll have to..."

Another question, "So the young man had a gun too?"

"I can't tell you..."

There was a knock at my door. I quickly let Kevin in.

"Only thing I can tell you for sure is that Paul Jones was a member of the
club," he said as he waddled in to the sofa and stared at the TV.

"You think this is connected to my situation?"

"No idea. How old do you figure Mac was, is?"

"Twenty-five to thirty. Okay, do you have any other reason to believe Jones
was being blackmailed too?"

"Haven't seen the man in years, decades. He was busted twice in the
seventies for boys, teenagers. He liked them older than your boy so I don't
know. I always thought our age range went up as we got older but, who
knows, maybe mechanics are different. May not be anything but something got
him mad enough to shoot the guy."

"They found two guns."

"Shoot out at the OK Corral and the old man won. They say how old he was?
Gotta be mid sixties or more."

"I haven't heard anything. You know, if Mac was riding around on his
motorcycle, you'd think he'd have had his driver's license on him. This
guy's unidentified so maybe it was an intruder."

"Then why didn't Jones just call the cops himself. Uh uh. There's more to
this, maybe not your situation but maybe an old lover threatening to sue
him. They're doing that a lot these days."

That seemed a more likely scenario than anything to do with Mac. We ordered
in pizza.

Other than brief mentions on the radio, there was nothing more until the
ten o'clock news and that was interrupted by the ringing of my doorbell. It
was the police, two plainsclothes at the door, two uniforms on the sidewalk
near a pair of unmarked official looking cars, one behind Kevin's Chrysler,
the other along side it.

 "Mr. Frysdale?"

"Yes?"

"A man you probably know has committed suicide. Mind if we ask you a few
questions?"

"Wait, who?"

"Paul Jones."

"The man that was on the news. But I don't, didn't know him. Never heard of
him before tonight."

"You mind if we come in? Just a few questions."

"Why? I told you I never heard of the man."

"Mr. Frysdale, we know you were being blackmailed, and about you and boys."

I put on as puzzled a face as I could muster. "What boys? What are you
talking about?"

"Wouldn't it be better if we discussed this inside instead of in front of
the neighbors?"

Kevin came up behind me. I said, "Look, I don't know what you're talking
about and don't like where this seems to be going so..."

"You paid twenty-five thousand dollars to a man blackmailing men over sex
with young boys. We're not looking to cause you any problems but there are
young kids in danger here and two dead people so I'm afraid you're either
going to have to speak to us here or at the station house, your choice."

"Do you have a warrant, sir," I demanded.

"Don't need one to ask questions. What's it gonna be?"

"Nothing. I'm staying here and you're leaving my property!" I didn't need
to feign anger at that point.

The second cop nudged his partner aside. "Mr. Frysdale, please. There are
young boys involved here. We need to locate them before something happens
to one of them."

Good cop, bad cop right off the TV, I thought. "I'm sorry to hear that but
there are no children here nor do I know any who might be in danger."

Good cop interrupted, "Look, we can go asking your neighbors if they've
seen any boys around here, show them the photo of the blackmailer but I
don't think you'd want us doing that."

"Be my guest. Ask away. Now, please leave."

"Let's make a deal, you let us check inside, make sure there's no child
here. We'll be quick. And we'll leave you in peace for now."

I caught the `for now' as I'm sure he expected. Since I was sure they'd be
questioning my neighbors no matter what I did, there didn't seem to be any
reason to cooperate. Kevin thought differently.

"Let `em look, Harry. I'm a witness to whatever they do or say."

"And what's your name, sir?" asked the tall cop..

"Kevin."

"Kevin what?"

"Kevin is all you're getting right now, sir." The `sir' oozed disrespect
but only generated a frown.

"Listen to your friend, Mr. Frysdale," counseled good cop. "It's in your
best interest."

I let them in.

The tall one motioned forward his compadres on the sidewalk.

They even found the storage area over the bedroom and looked up there.

Toward the end of their invasion, good cop again tried to get something out
of me. "Can you at least tell me why you'd go giving this guy twenty-five
thousand dollars in one week?"

Kevin shook his head. I said, "With the kind of things you are effectively
accusing me of, I think any discussion we have should be with my lawyer
present."

That ended our little confrontation. They promised to be in touch. I didn't
say goodbye.

The moment they were out the door, Kevin pulled a small digital recorder
out of his pocket. "I've got it all in case you need it."

"How the hell did they get my name and address?"

"The dead man was Mac and the idiot had it on him, and probably the others,
and what everybody paid and when. He knew you'd paid over a week's
time. Mac probably had it all in a notebook or something. What an idiot!"

"They said boys, not boy, so they really don't know anything about what
actually's been going on."

"Or," suggested Kevin, "they want you to think that, but, I think I
agree. They probably only know that you were being blackmailed, or gambling
or who knows what. They might even just be guessing boys based on Jones'
criminal record but, nah, there was probably something about it in Mac's
notebook. But they haven't enough to do much at this point. It depends a
lot on what they dig up from any others and, unfortunately, you know
they're gonna talk to your neighbors and there's a good possibility one of
them saw Mac here, maybe the kid."

"And Mikey was in here long enough for sex that one day he came in through
the front door. Shit! I'm the biggest idiot! You know a lawyer for this
kind of thing?"

"No, but I can go to some contacts and see who they recommend."

What worried the both of us was the police coming up with the boy. We
figured Mac probably had some kind of record so a check of his fingerprints
would bring up his name and address. They might find the boy at his house
or, through interviews with his neighbors, come up with a pretty good
description of him and maybe even where he was staying.

We batted around possibly believable stories, everything from total denial
to admitting all but the actual sex. I'd say the kid conned me into
bringing him home to do some work then without warning, he took off his
clothes and stood beside me while some guy came in the door and took two
pictures. Then they threatened me and I gave them what they wanted to avoid
losing my job and maybe going to jail.

If the kid said otherwise, it would be my word, a man with a squeaky clean
record and a good history against that of a street urchin involved in an
extorsion scheme. Of course, they'd believe the kid.

In the end, we decided a lawyer could best guide us and we needed to find
one with experience in this kind of case. Kevin went home just before
midnight.